Amal looked at her, stroking his chin as a grin slowly formed on his charmingly masculine face. 
[i]
Cuthbert's Tap n' Tack[/i] was a coastside tavern, popular amongst the outerlying villages that counted on Keogria for commerce and trade. The building was two stories and well furnished, its construction wrought of the local redwood timber to grant it a crisp look. The door was framed by two oblong pillars that showcased twin trees, and inside the round tables and comfortably fashioned chairs were the most inviting in forty kilometers. Amal whistled a jaunty tune as he hopped onto the porch and walked in through the open door, vaulting over a fallen table and placing his rump down on a barstool. Delphine had followed, struggling a bit more to get past the numerous small obstacles in the way, but making little noise or complaint. It appeared the slavers had hit Cuthbert's rather hard, likely figuring it was the best place to assail. Drunkards were easily pickings, particularly when they did not expect an attack from the damned sea. 

Amal tapped the counter rhythmically and expectantly, his whistling growing more attention-grabbing, as if to call a barman. Delphine checked behind and under a few tables to make sure there were no bodies, before pocketing three septims she had found lying on the ground. She deigned to finally join him, glancing left and right as she sat. 

"Amal..." the pretty breton remarked, as if she were about to reveal something untoward. 

"Hmmm?" He looked at her. 

"I don't think anyone is working today." She temporized, and gestured around them. Amal turned around and looked, and then rolled his eyes, smacking his forehead. 

"Forgive me, I had forgotten they were on holiday." He quipped, and pushed the barstool back, only to vault once again. This time it was over the countertop. Well, vault was not exactly the right term, because he did not even use his hands, hopping like a rabbit. She parted her lips to say something, but decided against it. Amal landed in a crouch, and rose from behind the counter with a bottle of Brambleborough Ale. He clapped it onto the table, and then delved back down as if he were diving into another mine. Next, he rose with a small casket of Rorikstead Mead and some Fellmoor Wine, followed by a dark bottle of Cyrodilic brandy. On the floor, Amal noticed a small puddle of blood under his feet. The tavern really had experienced some bad luck. Fortunately, it was good luck for the two of them. 

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" She asked, finally getting the urge to at least voice the opposition. Amal had busied himself with opening the larder, pulling out bits of cheese and spiced bread. 

"We don't have to drink here," he said, but sighed when he saw her face. He could not blame her, she wanted to get [i]out[/i] of trouble. Looting after a raid was not uncommon, but still. He shrugged. "If we get caught, I'll pay the tab. But let's get to the mezzanine." 

The two adventurers ascended the stairs with armfuls of food and drink, and to their surprise, they found the chairs and tables up there relatively untouched except for a few scattered cups and books. It was almost a mirror of the main room, save for a few bookshelves more for aesthetic reasons than any pragmatic useage of reading material, and a thick balustrade overlooking the bottom floor. They placed their loot on the central table, Amal kicking aside a fallen chair so he could comfortably sit next to Delphine as she placed herself down. 

"Now, pick your drink," he bade her, and when she did, he grabbed his own, and the two bumped their bottles together in victory. "What say you to a drinking game? Have you played Truth or Drink? I cannot remember which games cross provinces."